Ohana
by Lawless67
Summary: A domestic AU in which the Robins (minus Stephanie, plus Cass) are adorable little angels, and Bruce wins father of the year. Complete and utter fluff.


**A/N**: A domestic AU in which the Robins (minus Stephanie, plus Cass) are adorable little angels and Bruce wins father of the year. Otherwise entitled 'Floof de la Floof'. P.S. Damian has not arrived yet. We'll get there, I promise. Title is taken from Disney's _Lilo and Stitch._

* * *

There are days, Bruce thinks, when he wants to just open up the rarely used but well stocked liquor cabinet and _drink._

Today, despite his firm belief in temperance, is one of those days.

Is it too early to go back to bed? He checks his watch…and groans when it flashes mockingly at him. Seven-thirty. In the morning.

Today is Tim's first day of pre-school. And so far it is a nightmare.

"Dad!" one of his children shouts with increasing volume, and Bruce pushes himself semi-upright and attempts to look like he actually knows what he's doing.

"In the dining room," he calls sedately, draining half his coffee in one go.

"Dad," Jason shrieks just as loudly, trudging through the swinging door and dragging a half-clothed Tim by the hand.

The heavy door bumps Tim on the return swing, knocking him onto his butt, where he blinks, startled.

Jason turns at the sudden absence of his little brother's small hand. "Oops, sorry, Timmy," he says, lugging the toddler unconcernedly up by the back of his collar and continuing on his way.

"Dad," he says again.

"Yes, Jason." Bruce reaches past his older son to catch Tim under the arms and pull the recently turned four-year-old onto his lap. He scoots his own untouched plate towards the child and Tim begins casually chomping on a piece of perfectly browned toast.

Jason huffs loudly until Bruce looks at him. "Tim can't go to school," he states firmly.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "And why, may I ask, is that?"

"He's sick," the seven-year-old intones gravely.

Bruce glances pointedly to where Tim is contentedly chewing his breakfast.

"Is he?" Bruce brushes a hand over Tim's forehead, which is predictably the proper temperature, and resumes stroking Tim's wispy, incorrigible bedhead into something proper for the public.

"Tim does not have a fever, Jason," he pronounces calmly.

Jason narrows his eyes. "It's his tummy. It doesn't feel good today. Right, Tim?"

Tim pauses in his chewing, swallows. "My tummy is hungry?" he asks, looking at Jason hopefully.

"_No_, Tim," Jason rolls his eyes heavenward. Bruce struggles not to laugh. "Remember, we talked about this."

"Oh," Tim says, "oh, yes, Daddy. I can't go 'a school. My tummy is sick."

"I see," Bruce says, equally serious. "Tim, why don't you go see where the rest of your siblings are?"

"'Kay, Daddy." He slides the child off his lap, toast still clenched in one fist, and sends him tottering through the door with a firm pat to the seat of his pants.

"Jason," Bruce begins when the door swings shut behind his youngest. "Why don't you want Tim to go to school?"

"Because." The boy's chin juts stubbornly and Bruce sighs. He slides out the chair to his left and Jason plops down sullenly. Bruce pours a bowl of marshmallow-infested cereal and nudges it in front of his son.

"He's too little," Jason mutters into his cereal.

"Mm," Bruce hums, straightening his son's wrinkled and twisted t-shirt as he talks. "Tim is the same age you were when you first went to Miss Virginia's class, remember?"

"But, _Dad_," Jason says emphatically, turning big, earnest gray eyes to his father, "Tim is _small_. I was never that small."

Bruce smiles. "You were to me, kiddo, believe it or not."

The boy rolls his eyes. Bruce has a brief moment of terror at the thought of his teenage years.

"Okay, but last week I saw Joey Mariano push one of the first graders off the monkey bars and the kid _broke _his_ face. _There was blood _everywhere_, and that kid was twice Tim's size!" Jason exclaims, flustered.

Bruce's lips twitch. "Okay, hey, calm down," he rubs his son's back in big circles. "Jase, I'm quite sure that little boy did not 'break his face' as you so charmingly put it."

"It looked like it," Jason grumbles.

"Even so," Bruce responds, "that's not going to happen to Tim. Do you know why?"

"Huh-uh."

"Nothing bad is going to happen to Tim because he has you and Dick and Cassandra, too, to make sure he's just fine. That's what family is for, taking care of each other. Tim is smart, and he's going to do great. Okay?"

Jason holds his gaze for another moment, as if deciding whether or not to believe him, then nods. "Okay. But if Joey Mariano tries anything I'll punch him right in the mouth," the boy says, spoon held threatening in his fist, ready to hypothetically jump down the throats of a thousand Joey Mariano's in the name of Tim's honor.

Alfred chooses that moment to enter from the kitchen, expression carefully neutral in the face of threats of bodily harm and carrying a platter piled high with bacon and eggs.

"Master Jason, I would be pleased if you postponed any 'beat downs', as the children call them these days, until after you've finished your breakfast. And do try to eat something besides that…sugary death trap," he says, eyeing the cereal distastefully.

"Yes, Alfie," the boy answers dutifully, and reaches for a handful of bacon.

"Master Bruce," the butler says, tucking a napkin into Jason's lap as he shoves bacon and cereal into his mouth at once, "if you would check on the rest of the children. It really is getting rather late."

Bruce nods, ruffling Jason's hair and edging into the foyer.

Cass is leaping down the last several steps as Bruce enters, and he has a miniature heart attack before her feet land gracefully on level ground once more. She clicks the heels of her shiny black Mary Jane's together and waltzes over to stand in front of him. He has a moment of profound relief that she is both fully dressed and not wearing the purple fairy wings Leslie had gotten her for her birthday several months ago. That is a battle he does not have the strength for this morning.

"Good morning, daughter-mine," he says, adjusting her headband. He pretends not to see that her socks lie on opposite ends of the color spectrum.

"Dad." She smiles.

"Do you know where your brothers are, punkin?"

"Yes," she says serenely. "Upstairs. Dick is…fussing."

"Hmm. Go eat something, okay? You have show and tell this morning so we don't want to be late."

"Okay." He waits until Cass disappears into the dining room before traipsing upstairs.

Muffled voices emanate from Dick's room down the hall, and when he opens the door he is unsurprised to find both his remaining children in residence. Tim is perched on the side of Dick's bed, legs dangling, while his eldest brother carefully double knots the laces of his tiny sneakers.

"And remember, Tim," Dick prattles anxiously as his fingers work, "you can come and get me any time if something is wrong. I'm in Mrs. McMahon's class—now that's in the fourth grade hallway—do you know where that is?"

"Turn left at the office, third door on the right," Tim recites dutifully.

"That's right. Or, actually, you should probably just tell your teacher. And then she can call Dad. But, no, Dad's at work—she should call Alfred. Does she have the number? I don't think she has the number. Don't worry, Tim, I'll take care of it."

Bruce clears his throat, halting Dick's babbling.

Tim smiles at Bruce's appearance, unbothered by the fact that he has obviously been lovingly strong-armed into wearing Cass's sparkly purple wings.

"Daddy," he cheers.

Dick flashes a grin over one shoulder then turns back to his task. "Hold still, Timmy, I'm almost finished."

"Okay." Tim gives an impression of a statue.

Dick pulls the knot tight. "All done," the nine-year-old announces, and Tim hops down. "I tied everything really tight so they should stay tied all day."

"Thank you," Tim says seriously and pats Dick's cheek. He looks up to Bruce. "I'm ready for school."

"So I see," Bruce smiles. "Are you sure you want to wear the wings, Timmy? You don't have to just because sister said so."

Tim frowns. "Cassie gave them to me. She said they're special, and I'm special, too. I want to wear them." He twists back and forth, giving the wings a little flap.

Dick makes a sound reminiscent of a kitten being squished to death via hug.

Bruce's eyes go soft. "Just checking, buddy. You look great."

Tim beams, slipping one hand into Bruce's and tugging at Dick with the other. "The wings are part of my first day outfit, 'cause I have to be brave. That's what Jason said. But I'm not scared. I'm excited, Dad. And I'm hungry."

"Good. Breakfast is waiting," Bruce says, grinning inwardly at Tim's stream of conversation.

Dick grabs his backpack, keeping hold of Tim's hand, and they make their way downstairs, swinging Tim between them.

In the dining room, Jason and Cass are waging a battle over the last of the chocolate milk. There are _forks _involved. Bruce doesn't even know how they have forks, because anything sharper than a spoon was outlawed by Alfred after the infamous Cake Incident six months ago. Jason had to get _stitches. _Okay, one stitch. But that is still too many.

Bruce plops Tim in his booster seat, pushes the remaining, much-coveted milk towards Dick, and plucks the forks from the hands of his middle children.

Cass and Jason's cries of protest are quelled by a steely look from Alfred. The forks are confiscated, and Bruce falls into his seat with a heavy sigh.

Breakfast commences with little more fuss until the scramble for the door at 7:55.

"Dad, I can't find my shoes!"

"Has anyone seen my lunchbox?"

"I can't go to school without my friendship bracelet. Stephanie will think I don't like her anymore, Dad."

"Dick, your shoes are by the door like they always are. Jason, your lunch box is in the kitchen. Alfred has specifically requested you remember to bring it home everyday, as mold is neither delicious nor sanitary. Here, Cass," Bruce fires off rapidly, tying the braided string of yarn around his daughter's small wrist.

His children echo their thanks, slamming past him with fleeting hugs and out the door in quick succession, trailing goodbyes after them.

Bruce breathes. Behind him, Alfred clears his throat.

Tim stands with the butler in the hallway. Alfred holds the child's backpack in one hand, as Tim's fairy wings are still slung over his shoulders.

"Ready?" Bruce asks. He is not crying. He is _not. _

Tim nods, dimpling adorably.

Bruce kneels, pulling his youngest close. Tim's little arms slip around his neck and the little boy presses a clumsy kiss against his cheek.

"Love you, Daddy."

"Love you more, kiddo. Have a good day." He releases Tim reluctantly.

Alfred's eyes crinkle understandingly and he takes Tim's hand to lead him out the door. "Might I suggest, sir, that you find something to, ah, occupy yourself today." Bruce nods as Tim bounces over the doorstep.

Bruce watches them walk down the front steps to where Dick, Jason, and Cass wait impatiently by the car.

Tim glances back once, and Bruce waves, dying a little on the inside as the car pulls away.

"They are _never _going to college," he mutters.


End file.
